


The End

by Nikoshinigami



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Frottage, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-04
Updated: 2013-06-04
Packaged: 2017-12-13 22:01:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/829363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nikoshinigami/pseuds/Nikoshinigami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The only way John or Sherlock were going to concede to try was if the world was ending. </p><p>And now it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The End

There had only been a few years of warning--words containing fact and fears but far bereft of hope. Catastrophic collisions between celestial bodies weren't as rare in the history of the universe as they were in the history of man. One in a billion odds. John had found it almost comical the way the media brought in billiards champions as their experts to explain how one asteroid could hit another out of its orbit just that right amount to make Earth the corner-pocket trick shot of the century. It was all anyone ever talked about, all the media cared to call attention to. What else mattered when it was all going to end? Three years was a long time to wait all the same. Macabre count downs remained but real news managed to carry on as life must do despite harrowing facts among the fiction.

They thought society would collapse, the world's infrastructure crumble in panic long before the angel of death fell upon them. They were wrong. The looting and sudden spike in illegal activities skyrocketed within the first few months then slowly subsided like flood waters, leaving destruction in the wake but not devastation. People went to work just to not have to think about an inevitable death still so far in their future. Only the rich retired, panicked to spend as much of their funds as possible, creating an influx of income to the impoverished working classes who enjoyed financial success for the first times in their lives. People were more generous. Governments were driven by a universal care for their people over corporate interests. Courts were more forgiving. The last three years of planet Earth's human reign were the closest to peace and prosperity they had ever come to since they walked from the jungles on two legs. It was easy not to be afraid, day by day, when you lived a happy life. They'd had plenty of time to get used to the facts of death. Even now, hours from the end, it was simply easier to keep on as though the end wasn't nigh. It was a waste of time to panic. There were far better things to do before the hour of one's demise.

John checked his freshly shaven face in the mirror, making sure there was no foam left behind his ears as he cleared his throat and straightened in front of the reflective glass with shoulders back and chin raised. He looked good. He'd always liked the noise of plaid under a sleek, soundless cardigan. It was comfortable. It was sophisticated without the loss of any rugged, masculine charm and should aliens or survivors--both were equally as likely--come across his corpse he rather hoped it left a good impression as to the sort of man he'd been in life. Sherlock had joked briefly about John putting on his dress uniform with the adornment of service medals. Part of him had thought about it. The truth was he had been as much a solder in his service with Sherlock in his own attire as he had been in the army in theirs. He wore his scars as his medals for the accomplishments in both and wore his civilian uniform not on behalf of Queen and country but as part of it all.

Sherlock--wonderful, unchangeable Sherlock--still wore his pajamas and his best dressing gown. He'd been tuning his violin that morning when the E string snapped. He didn't have any spares nor the desire to go out into the world and find one and as such had taken to sulking through their flat in a restless state of boredom, occasionally groaning that he wished the 'stupid rock' would hurry up. There would be no cases to look forward to. It was literally the end of the world though Sherlock's theatrics were more concerned with his having nothing to do than that this would be the last chance he had to do anything. John wasn't sure if pity or jealousy was the proper emotional response. He wanted Sherlock to enjoy what was left of his life but what Sherlock did was and always would be up to his own manic whims.

Crossing to the den, John found Sherlock standing just outside the kitchen door, waiting, looking at John with expressionless eyes and a face equally taut and unreadable. His hair was a disarrayed mess. "Took you long enough," he said, leaning back on his heels.

John shrugged, arms out in gesture as he paused in step. "Didn't realize you were waiting to use it."

"I'm not." Sherlock moved aside, grabbing John's coat for him and holding it out as he sometimes did before informing him of a new case or other excuse for John to hurry and come along. Sherlock wasn't dressed to go anywhere. "You'll be late," he said, and shook the coat as John took too long to take it from him.

John pursed his lips, slowly taking the familiar item from his impatient grasp. He'd hoped... He'd hoped for a lot of things. Sherlock changing his mind had been paramount among them, though. "You can still come with me. I'll wait. Gary says he's got enough booze stockpiled the whole of the city could show up and we'd still have enough for a party."

"Music, women, and alcohol? I'm quite certain I'll be much happier here."

"You'll be alone here," John reminded him. Not that he needed to. 

Sherlock shook his head, gesturing to the mantle. "Nonsense. I have my skull. I'll be as right as I've ever been." Which, to his credit, wasn't saying much. Sherlock made room for him to move to the door, motioning with his chin towards the obvious path. "You'll hardly have time to pull if you hang about around here much longer. Time is wasting, John."

It was. For once, there was a very finite sense of it. There was no tomorrow. No later. There was only now and the few hours which it encompassed. It had been terrifying to imagine years before. It became mundane in the years since. Standing in front of Sherlock with his coat in his hand, though, that long lost horror had returned to some degree. This was it. Last words shared, last sentiments spoken, last image of his face and all of it knowing why there would be no more on Earth and quite possibly nothing in the guise of heaven.

John cleared his throat, licking his dry lips with a sudden spike of anxiety. "So I guess this is--"

"Yes," Sherlock interrupted. "Indefinitely. And as you will never return and I will hardly have the opportunity to notice, there's no reason to linger on it. Enjoy your evening."

It wasn't what John expected. It wasn't what he wanted. But it was Sherlock. John supposed anything more meaningful would seem out of place, even for two men such as themselves who had spent years together in close quarters. Sherlock wasn't going to proclaim his esteem for John and wax poetic on what the years had meant to him. It wasn't him. It wasn't them. John knew, though, just as he was sure Sherlock did. Rare were the things that came between them and rarer still were the words to paint the spectrum of emotions that colored the canvas of their shared existence. They weren't going to cry with testaments of love and hug across the doorway in a achingly slow goodbye. No. Simple. Clean. Two hairs stuck to the sticky end of a plaster ready to be yanked away rather than endure the glacial tug of sentimental resistance. 

There were a lot of things that could have been between them. A lot of things that never would be. Unspoken--always unspoken--they just seemed to agree not to try. Better to die in uncertainty than know either way. John nodded, voice caught on a rogue emotion, and gave Sherlock's arm a firm pat as he walked past him, heading to the stairs.

He knew exactly how many steps it took to reach the other end of the landing before needing to turn and head down. He could close his eyes on those few retreating steps and save the that last moment in Sherlock's presence to remember for the rest of his life. Hair not black but burnt like chestnut that glowed warm in the sun, reflecting off the scattered surface of his curls in golden shades of brown. Eyes like soap bubbles with a full range of color depending on the day, last seen smiling under heavy brows. How could one ever forget those cheek bones?--the way his face remained sculpted hard and smooth like marble to be forever set in an expression of half-acceptance. His lips were always telling. The thinner they were, the less pleased Sherlock was. The peaks of his lip had been like the bridge towers peeking above his mouth's depression. John would forever remember, in that small span that forever stood to mean, that Sherlock Holmes looked sad under his attempt to see John off with indifference. From the steps he did not bother to cast one last look up into the face of his best friend. He has his picture. He had Sherlock in his mind's eye. There could not be a goodbye between them and so this, as unsatisfying as it was, was truly all either of them could ever receive.

They didn't talk about their final plans the first two years. It was sort of understood they'd be together when it happened. Then one day it wasn't. Closer to imminent John knew he wanted to be with people, be a part of something bigger than himself, louder than himself, more than himself. Partying in a celebration of life seemed like the best way to die. Sherlock disagreed and would not budge on the subject. So now they planned to die apart. Now it wasn't a plan so much as it was reality. Walking out the door of 221B was harder in practice than it was in preparation. John shut but did not lock the door behind him, hand stuck to the handle for a moment before a deep exhale helped pull him away. 

The streets were pebbled in crazies. While most people kept their whits about them, there were still those for whom the end of the world seemed to sneak up on them despite all warnings. Sane people were in indoors or out on their rooftops marveling at the sky which experts said would burst with color as the atmosphere burned away. Some were walking as John was to their final destination, heads down and pace fast and determined to walk past those failing to cope. Doomsdayers stood on corners shouting for all lost souls to repent while the air was full of the smells of sex, as arousing as it was repugnant. Crazy people seemed to have the same idea as the sensible ones, at least, for how to best to spend their last hours of life. Pregnancy, STDs, consequences in general did not matter anymore. Humanity had found sympathy in lust and even the drunkards shouting obscenities at the sky had their favorite vice in one hand and their dicks in the other. John clenched his fists and walked purposefully down the street, doing his best to ignore his surroundings and focus only on the image of Sherlock that remained behind his eyes. He did not want to settle for fear on his journey to see his mates. Fear would make a fool of him and terror would strip him of all sanity if he allowed the panic around him to touch him. He didn't want to go out like the people lost on the streets in rage and horror. He could die with dignity, at least. As much dignity as any man did when beset by alcohol and women of a similar mind to him. It was better than the alternative, anyway. 

"Repent!" the man on the corner shouted, thrusting his bible in the face of passerbys. "Repent!"

John couldn't say why he thought of it. Like a momentary flash of brilliance it was there, gleaming silver in his mind's eye with red now dotting the wallpaper under the grin of the perforated face. And he knew it was true with the utmost certainty. There was no thought but simply action as John turned on his heels and ran, not walked, back past Speedy's empty cafe through their door of Baker Street. He took the stairs two at a time, sometimes three, and surveyed the den and kitchen in quick scans before turning on the landing up the second flight of stairs. Sherlock was standing there, halfway to John's own room. There was no excuse for him to be there and so he seemed to offer none. His face held tight to its regal air as he watched John climb towards him with reserved impunity. The revolver. John could almost hear Sherlock's offhanded defense as it reasoned for him why it was the same if he took his own life or waited to join in the rest of the world as one more voice in the global choir of screams. There was no rebuttal in his own mind--not a sensible one at any rate. John simply didn't want him to. 

Sherlock pressed against the wall to let John pass, neither retreating nor proceeding while under John's stare. He stood straight, proud as ever, unashamed of his intentions while it remained obvious that they both knew what they were. John moved past him, looking at the closed door to his room for the first time as Sherlock's kaleidoscope gaze fell behind his range of sight.

"John."

It wouldn't be ' _stay with me_ ' or any such admission of emotion. ' _Leave it_ '. ' _Just go_ '. Consigned to die on his own terms, scared and unwilling to compromise or vocalize such vulnerabilities as loneliness. John turned, their faces on an equal plane with the step to aid him. Sherlock's lips parted but John refused to let them speak. He already knew what Sherlock wanted to say and the answer was definitively 'no'. No, he would not just leave him for a bullet's company. No, he wouldn't just walk away. He kissed him instead, his protective instinct barreling over the last reservations that said to keep things simple and leave it all the way it had always been. He kissed him under the warning lights of his own conscious that mocked the desperate measure for what it was: hopeless. There was no future to live to to regret the kiss, no more than a few hours to mourn their friendship if they came to blows. There could never be any hope of expectation in the kiss he pressed to Sherlock's lips and in that hopelessness no fear to try.

Loving Sherlock would have destroyed a lesser human being. He was reckless and impulsive, insulting and depressive. He required almost constant supervision not for his own safety but for one's peace of mind. He always came out on top, always conquered the demons be they his own or of flesh and blood. To watch him was to always be one heartbeat away from cardiac arrest, though, and one hair away from baldness as his temperament caused one to claw at one's hair in frustration. John had spent the best years of his life loving him without loving him, keeping that last breath of physical distance between them as a barrier for his own sanity. The thought of Sherlock's last kiss being against the metallic flesh of his revolver was enough to close John's lips on that breath and open them instead with the insistence of his tongue in place of the rush of a murderous bullet.

Sherlock shocked still then grabbed at him, fists tight in his cardigan as he clawed once at his chest then surrounded him in his arms, holding him with assurance over the first desperate tugs. Their teeth clicked and mashed, an uncoordinated dance that looked far more like a race as John held Sherlock's face close, fingers hiding in his curls as they urged against parting and promoted in its stead the moist panting amidst groans of want and satisfaction. Sherlock's voice had always been thrilling but in this context it was like lightening to his senses, drawing John deeper and deeper into the want of him with every triumph of response.

It took ages for John to let go and hold himself at a distance even as Sherlock's lips sought to chase his and forbid such a departure from their embrace. It's only temporary, John's actions said, as he reached down to take Sherlock's hand, lacing his fingers between their long, artisan counterparts. He pulled him along to his room, heart racing and fire rolling through his veins but not a single thought against this coming to mind. He pulled the door closed behind them more for a sense of isolation than for privacy and Sherlock watched him with curiosity with his blown black stare. It took only the motion of John tucking the first button of his cardigan back through its hole for him to be beset by the scientist, dexterous hands making fast work of the clothes he'd never wear again as they kissed against the final wave of uncertainty. John pushed Sherlock's dressing gown down his shoulders, letting him wiggle it off his arms unlike the close-worn sleeves of his own attire which Sherlock yanked away in insistent pulls before tossing far aside. John's button-down he simply forced open, sturdy craftsmanship only attesting to one popped button as he peeled it from him and pushed it away, the tuck of John's pants the only thing holding it up from the floor. That would change in time. 

The crew-neck tees they both wore required a cessation of kissing neither really seemed eager to oblige but that first flex of bare chest muscles, the smooth cream of Sherlock's clavicle and neck as he peeled back and tossed his shirt away held John's full and greedy attention, lips be damned if he did not lean in and kiss an imperfection against the haunted flesh. He let his teeth sink into him, sucked against the surprised groan of unprepared delight as his own hands raked over the thin frame that bowed against him and his lips with talons in his short hair. Sherlock curved into his body with the litheness of his own, bowed to fit them warm against each other, his hardness to John's hip and John's pressed against his thigh. John ran a hand down Sherlock's back, rounding down under the elastic of his pajama bottoms to grab a handful of his arse and bid his hips to rock. Sherlock's unapologetic grunt as he found a pleasant rhythm to it fueled John's own desires, wet kisses left along Sherlock's neck that sparkled in the light from the windows with their sinuous trails of saliva.

John's trousers were far too restrictive to allow for comfortable stimuli. The denim held him firm like a thick outer skin, stealing from him all sensation but heat and pressure. Sherlock was very warm. Sherlock's movements left a sturdy thigh for John to buck against but to very little avail. Sometimes it was a joy to let his partner fall apart while he kept a calm and steady head. Not now. Not with Sherlock. John helped him straighten, a firm pinch to the only round cheeks he possessed getting the detective to still long enough to stand firmly on his own and allow John to move them apart. 

There wasn't any confusion this time. Sherlock took a step back and removed his cotton pajamas, kicking them aside with nothing left to cover himself and not so much as a hint to try. His erection stood proudly from the garden of black curls like a red-capped scarecrow, both narrow and straight with his ripened crop hung below. John had never looked with want at another man but while his first thoughts were certainly far from revolving around a desire to have his lips along his crown, the desire to put his hand around it and steer Sherlock towards euphoric madness was present in abundance. John licked his lips all the same at the shine of pre-ejaculate along the rosy head. He was going to make him fire that off and call his name while doing it. And it was going to be fantastic. 

John stripped himself of his jeans in as much hurry as was possible without tripping over the legs once pooled at his ankles with pants to follow. Sherlock was longer than him but shy of his girth, his pubic hair wild where John's was, while not in any way sculpted, fairly trimmed and tidy by comparison. It was also grey in many places but the softness of color hiding most of that fact. John stroked himself, free from the hardly sensual confines of his trousers, and drew open his bedside drawer as Sherlock took a seat on his mattress, disturbing the tucked blanket over a bed made out of habit. Condoms, no; lubricant, yes. John popped the cap with his teeth and poured a blob in his hand as he stroked the velvet liquid over himself and took Sherlock's lap in a straddle.

Sherlock leaned back on his hands while John leaned up on his knees, kissing him earnestly with a thrust of his tongue against its quick-witted and talented companion. His hand strayed from the familiar feel of his own penis to the other one trapped between them, spreading an excess of unctuous fluid now warmed and ready to share. Sherlock moaned as John cursed, hips following the movement of the solder's hand as John rolled his palm over the weeping head and dragged an open fist down his length. Strange and new and wonderful in the way Sherlock's body rocked in chase of every sensation, gasping against his lips instead of a kiss as his deep voice hitched to a far more desperate octave. His hands were bigger, callouses and smooth patterns different as he reach between them and took John in the curve of his fingers and himself in the hollow of his palm. John let go and took hold of Sherlock's shoulders instead, permitting the detective's lead as they rolled against each other in his hand, crown to crown like two proud kings. John thrust while Sherlock stroked, hand loose and friction gained in the press of one oiled cock against another. So good. John's breath hitched as his movements became short and desperate, feeling every chemical burn scar along the pads of Sherlock's fingers and tasting every exalted moan when a firm hand and an insistent thrust caught his gentleman bedfellow by surprise. Sherlock brought in both hands, rolling them, toying with them, eliciting every response he could make as John powered through the grunts and groans of impending release with a whimper of finality.

Sherlock's orgasm sounded like an epiphany as he squirted against his hands, the wet slide of it down John's own knob a sensation to digest all its own. John kissed his lengthened neck, hands sliding down his sides as his body tremored with release. John's was quiet, breath held, the only sound his moaned relief in the presence of his remedy. He added to the genetic amalgamation in short, pulsing bursts and let his lips find their way blindly back to Sherlock's as they fell into reprieve. It was a short kiss, no longer hungry but intimately satisfied. Sherlock hummed appreciatively against his lips then leaned back onto the bed with an emptying sigh, John sliding from his perch to sit along the bed.

It wouldn't have been a mistake. He ran his hand against Sherlock's arm, fingers down tired triceps to the thin wrists to lay his hand in the other's palm. They would have been wonderful together. Their friendship could have survived this. It made him wonder in the twinge of heartache if that somehow hadn't been part of why they never brought it up, not in the three years before when they had known three years was all they'd have. Perhaps it hadn't always been just to protect the friendship they had. The fear John had been so prepared to swallow was ripe within him again. A few hours with this understanding wasn't enough. No amount of time could ever be enough. He wasn't satisfied anymore with the memories of before. He wanted new memories. He wanted a future. John held Sherlock's hand tight and bit his lip against an ill-advised sob, watching Sherlock's chest rise and fall with every panted breath.

"You know I love you, yeah?" John asked, finding enough pause between heartbeats to find words once more on his tongue. "It's hard to know sometimes if you've deduced things like that. And I'm not the best at saying it."

"In that way we are very similar, John." Sherlock turned his face to him with a wide, shameless smile, pulling on his arm to come closer and share another kiss.

 

They laid like two bodies prepared for sacrifice to a long absent god against the soiled bedclothes, Sherlock overlapping John's shoulder and chest as he laid half across his left side, face down with his head beside his, hand across his chest. John kept his eyes closed, senses grounded in the weight of another body beside him, his own arms wrapped around him, and in all hopes a sense of timelessness that did not care to remember that this was the end as much as it was a beginning.

There were screams outside, the roar of them carrying through the closed window. John imagined the sky glowing red as some sign that it was now, that is was happening. He hoped the heavens lit up like fireworks in the most brilliant of displays that mankind could ever hope to see. He hoped the screams turned into gasps of awe and wonder and then, like a light, extinguished quickly in a flash too brilliant to escape.

"I will rot into you," Sherlock said, drawing imaginary outlines against his chest. "My flesh will fuse to yours as bacteria and chemical degradation turns us into a rancid soup of complex compounds breaking into our basic parts. The build up of calcium may fuse our bones as we're left undisturbed in this bed for all of time. We'll soak into your mattress as indistinguishable ooze, a complete coalescence of two organic lifeforms forever made inseparable."

John kissed his head, arms tighter as the world's panic seemed to creep through the seams of the room. "Always knew there was never any room for goodbye."

The room began to shake and John held on tighter. The windows blew out and with them all the air. It was pure and unadulterated agony both burning cold and icy hot. But they held on, never once letting go even as their flesh blistered and bodies hemorrhaged. They could not live together but they could rot together. Such a small, completely irrelevant idea and yet it made any death worth suffering if just for that one concession.


End file.
